


Well here we are again, darling

by insensible



Series: If only, but also [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Aftercare, Ariadne is over it, BDSM, Breathplay, Choking, Deepthroating, Dom Cobb Being an Asshole, I mean, It's porn, Late at Night, Loyalty, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Negotiation, Way too many words probably, thats pretty much it, unexpected foreskin categorisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24512527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insensible/pseuds/insensible
Summary: “If you’ve changed your mind about us,” he says, eventually, hearing the catch in his voice and hating it, “you need to tell me, now. If you haven’t, you need to make that crystal. If you continue to equivocate I am going to leave for  Mombasa right now, Arthur, your very specific needs be damned, and you can find another forger.”
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Series: If only, but also [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822282
Comments: 15
Kudos: 119





	Well here we are again, darling

It’s late. Cobb has taken Yusuf to a bar, a surprising development that might repay some further investigation. Ariadne left an hour ago with a face like thunder, so now Eames and Arthur are alone in the warehouse, a situation Eames had most fervently wished to avoid. When Arthur called from the other end of the shop floor, told Eames he needed to run something past him, Eames assumed the subject would be Browning, but it wasn’t, and it isn’t, and now Eames is at a loss for words, which happens _never_.

“I know. It’s a big ask,” Arthur is saying, “but things aren't good. Cobb’s all over the place, like a house falling apart in slow motion, Ariadne’s green, Yusuf’s an unknown quantity, Saito’s a serious liability, and I’m still firefighting that last job. Eames, I’m _shot_. I’ve slept three true hours in the last forty eight. Will you help me?”

Arthur awaits his reply as coolly and expectantly as if he’d just asked Eames what kind of coffee he’d prefer, rather than propositioned him. Eames runs a fingernail along the milled rim of the totem in his pocket, is reassured by the pattern cut there. So: this is likely real, but with their history the odds aren’t imperceptible that this is Arthur’s dream. Which would …

Arthur’s mouth quirks a fraction. “You still don’t believe me. I never touched it. This is not a dream.”

“Fuck’s _sake_ , Arthur. You seriously expect me to say yes? Ever been to Montreal?”

“It wasn’t a mistake to say what I did then. But I’m sorry I had to.”

“So you kept telling me. Repeatedly. It seems you still are.”

“ _Eames_. I wouldn't ask but this is mission-critical. I need a thing. I’m hoping you’ll give it to me. I’m not fucking with you. I wasn't going to tell you but circumstances are changing. In ten days the limiting factor we discussed…”

“It wasn’t a _discussion_ , Arthur. We didn’t _discuss_ anything. More of a prepared statement, if…”

“…won’t be a limiting factor any more. He’s out. Quitting.”

“Cobb?”

Arthur nods.

Eames is suddenly disorientated, has the strange apprehension of a rug slipping underfoot. What the _fuck_ did Arthur just tell him? Back up.

“What exactly are you asking for?”

“A reset. I need to be taken down.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Really far down.”

So that’s what this is.

Eames gets it.

“You want us to go under for…”

Arthur shakes his head.

Eames stares at him, rubs the back of his neck. “ _Topside_? Fucking hell, Arthur. And … what you’re asking me for, this kinky roll in the hay, this is in the way of a … a promissary note?”

“That’s not how I see it. I understand why you might. But that’s not the point, Eames.” Arthur is getting impatient.

“What is?”

“Will you do it?”

Eames closes his eyes. The vista of a future he’s spent the last eight months trying to burn away with the help of every vice he knows is spread out in front of him again in full Technicolour and he can't speak because his initial shock has turned to a flood of such outraged fury he’s physically trembling. Worse, he knows Arthur has infuriated him because it entirely suits his purposes, and Eames is about to tell him to fuck right off but when he looks at Arthur again and opens his mouth to speak, he shuts it again, the words unsaid, because Arthur’s eyes are wet.

Exhaustion? Exasperation? Desperation? It could be anything; because Arthur, when he wants to be, which is most of the time, is impossible to read, which is catnip to Eames, and he knows that’s one of the reasons he’d fallen so hard and so fast—and how devastating it had been when Arthur sat there on the edge of the bed and told him they couldn’t any more, because Cobb needed him now, and Eames didn’t, not in the same way—and Eames had had no idea it was coming.

He stares at the flex of the floor lamp and the shadow tracking its curl. The metal filings lying on the floor to the left of Arthur’s handmade shoes. How Arthur is, right now, pressing one thumb to the second finger of his left hand so hard the first joint of both digits have paled. The way the seam of his trousers splays a fan of tiny creases out along the line of his inner thigh.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“If you’ve changed your mind about us,” he says, eventually, hearing the catch in his voice and hating it, “you need to tell me, now. If you haven’t, you need to make that crystal. If you continue to equivocate I am going to leave for Mombasa right now, Arthur, your very specific needs be damned, and you can find another forger.”

Arthur’s shoulders sink, and Eames can see for the first time, how exhausted Arthur is, how hard he must have been working to cover it up.

“Eames,” says Arthur, quietly.

“What?” says Eames.

“I miss you. I have missed you since Montreal. I have hated every single hour of the last two hundred and sixty six days.”

“Arthur,” says Eames, “you are an unmitigated bastard.”

*

Eames is an actor: he compulsively catalogues people’s qualities, and he’s studied Arthur harder than he thinks even Arthur guesses. He knows Arthur's perpetually irritated that Eames will never close a door when it can be left open; how his eyes feel gritty in the mornings, how he balances himself on chairs, mouths at the clip on his Montegrappa when he’s trying to solve a problem. That Arthur can mix a perfect Old Fashioned but can’t cook anything much more complicated than an omelette. That he has a not-so-secret cigarette habit, preferring the roughest brands. That he doesn't listen to music at all. That he is preternaturally, startlingly expert at close-quarters combat, fighting with a blade (forward grip, specifically: palm), and frighteningly competent in fields that include, but are not limited to: logistics, security, finance, real estate, blackmail, marksmanship, small arms, sourcing small arms, sourcing ammunition, sourcing _anything_ , the fine points of most areas of law, advanced driving, non-Euclidean geometry. His propensity to argue in meetings is because he feels it’s necessary in his role to test all ideas to destruction. (Eames grudgingly approves). Arthur’s startling delight in other people’s good ideas is something Eames has rarely encountered in others, and loves. Most strikingly of all, Eames has never known Arthur to lie. Not outright, to his colleagues. He is evasive, manipulative, impatient and highly judgemental, but truthful. Which means if this job works out, they _will_ be together again. Together for a given value of the rest of their lives that will likely be high, considering Arthur’s genius at running down potential threats. But trust? He’s trusted Arthur with his life more times than he can count, but that’s not the point. The point is the rain on the windows of the hotel room in Montreal, his hot tears, the crunch in his fist when he’d punched the faux-brick wall. And Arthur’s continual blankness. It had been like shouting at a stone.

*

Arthur’s stance telegraphs _touch me and I’ll break your neck_ , but he’s all tells: his lips are fractionally parted, his eyes dark, and Eames is close enough to smell him, the tail end of his cologne—iris root, he thinks, with a pang of reminiscence—beneath it, the acridity of weariness, and behind that the sharp prickle of adrenalin and want. That grips him, and for a moment he is not sure whether he wants to deliver a kiss or a punch.

“I know,” says Arthur. “It’s ok.” He lifts his chin, just a fraction.

Eames raises his right hand like a blessing, touches his outstretched index finger to the point of Arthur’s upturned chin, pushes his jaw a little higher, then drags his finger down the contours of his throat to press into the hollow below his adam’s apple. When he feels him swallow, all Eames’ rage flips strangely and painfully inside him and turns into a surge of the hunger Arthur has always kindled in him, that hot rapaciousness he’s spent months attempting to forget. It’s like molten gold, heady and overpowering, and he feels it flood his heart, his stomach, fill his cock, his balls, his lungs, prickle down his skin in heavy waves.

“Eames?” Arthur says, softly.

Eames raises his eyebrows, waits for the answering nod, then pushes _in_ , feels Arthur’s breath quicken, shorten, sees his eyes close, lashes fluttering down on cheeks growing more flushed by the second, and Eames wants to do the most terrible things to this man and knows in his bones he’s never loved anyone like this in his whole licentious, appalling, unreliable, criminal life. Sex with Arthur is so much like running a con it had felt second nature from the first: addictive, gratifying, exciting, disreputable, occasionally a failure, often hilarious, and always— _always_ —requiring you to be ready for things to turn completely on their head. About that: he’d read Arthur very wrong before he got his hands on him; the best point man in the business turned out to be just as switchy and versatile as Eames, which gave their negotiated proceedings an incestuous sweetness that never, ever failed to set him alight.

It still does. His lifts his hand from Arthur’s throat; Arthur’s eyes turn watchful, hopeful. He strokes a finger along the dark collar of Arthur’s shirt, flicks open the first two buttons, grasps hold of the perfectly tied knot of his tie and reaches with his other hand to pull on its free end. _You and your bloody neckwear_ , he thinks, fondly, tightening it, testing it with a finger each time, until it fits just snug enough to force Arthur into a conscious awareness of every breath.

 _Well here we are again, darling_ , he thinks, running the palm of his other hand over the back of Arthur’s, loose at his side, tracing over thin fingers, over his watch, up the hairs and sinews of his forearm to meet the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. He tucks one finger inside the folded cotton to caress the soft skin of Arthur’s inner arm, gets a shiver in return.

 _Come on Eamesy_ , he thinks. _Move this along_. He takes a firmer grip on Arthur’s tie, pushes him back several feet across the floor until his back hits the wall, then drags him down into a kneel.

“Concrete, lovely,” he says, with satisfaction. “Your knees, poor thing.”

“Just _get on with it_ ,” Arthur hisses. “My knees will be _fine_. All the times we’ve done this and you still think I’m made of …”

Eames slaps him hard across one cheek, and Arthur’s sharp exhale sounds dangerously close to a whimper.

“ _Quiet_ ,” hisses Eames. It's coming together now; Arthur is biting his lip and Eames can see he’s hard, and delightfully desperate, and is wearing his best sullen face which Eames adores because he can see right through it. Arthur’s sex faces are _never_ hard to read. He’s easy, so easy like this. Transparent as glass.

Eames dabs at the little peaks of Arthur’s nipples through his shirt, applying negligible pressure, making Arthur squirm and fret with frustration. He moves his hand to his own crotch, spreads his fingers, runs them down the length of his cock through the wool of his pants. He palms himself, strokes roughly, grunts, lets his head fall back a little. It’s a cheap move; effective. Arthur doesn’t like it. “Let me,” he says, hoarsely, eyes narrowed, leaning forward, trying to close the gap. Eames doesn’t let him.

“Are you _panting_ , Arthur?” Eames says. “I know how much you want to get your mouth on me. I thought I told you to be quiet.” He lets go of the tie, grabs a fistful of Arthur’s hair, and plays his fingers along the curve of that set and resolute jaw. “You’re being very impatient, darling, You should stop thinking. It’s all in hand. I’m going to take you where you need to go.”

When he trails two fingers across Arthur’s lips, Arthur chases them with his tongue, and Eames can’t help himself. Arthur tenses: this kiss is a surprise for him. It is for Eames too. For a fleeting moment, Eames thinks he's made a mistake. But Arthur recovers fast. He gasps, surges upward to push his tongue into Eames' mouth, and the slick hunger of it, the sharp bites at Eames’ lips, the growls, the way Arthur’s passivity falls away as soon as he sees an opportunity to get the upper hand: it’s miraculous and obscene. _You’re a feral little shit_ , thinks Eames, full of love.

He yanks Arthur’s head back cruelly, forcing his mouth open and his eyes closed. Fitting a shoe between Arthur’s narrow knees he kicks them apart, straightening his spine inch by inch, seeing with satisfaction his pretty frown deepen into something far darker. Arthur is in a considerable amount of discomfort, now, struggling into and away from it at the same time, and Eames holds him right there, revelling in the dampness on his lips, the way his suit trousers are constricting his cock, the rasp of his breathing, his shirt collar wrenched up on one side, the delicacy of his reddened ears, his hair a glorious mess.

He leans forward.

“You’ve been a prick to me on this job,” he says.

Arthur, as much as he is able, in the position he is in, shrugs.

Eames grins, but only because Arthur can’t see him.

“I’m going to teach you some manners,” he says, shortly. “Get your mouth nice and wet for me,” and he hears Arthur moan for the first time, long and low, as he unbuttons his flies, reaches into his boxers, takes himself out, pulls Arthur’s head back up so he can look. He’s chewing at his cheeks, his eyes glazed with submission, half-drowned in anticipation. Eames loves how much of a cocksucker Arthur is, and thinks of that time in a hotel room, right at the beginning, lounging on the bed in the afternoon with his hands behind his head, Arthur curled at his side. Arthur, gently pinching at his foreskin, rolling it carefully, drawing it back a little to lick at his glans, laving inside it with his tongue, suckling at it, idly working it back and forth with his fingers. Eames watching him with benevolence, faintly baffled by his behaviour, but increasingly aroused. “Arthur, I do believe you have a fetish,” he’d said, at last. “I don’t,” said Arthur, smiling, dimples and all. “It’s just … I like it. It’s so _European_.” Eames roared with laughter. It still tickles him that his foreskin is, courtesy of Arthur, in the same category as the esteemed productions of Cartier, Charvet, Brioni and Jeanne Moreau.

Eames is never sure where this version of himself falls in his complicated rolodex of different identities, but once he finds it, he can never bring himself to care. Arthur is whispering _Eames_ , over and over again. It's as close to begging as he ever gets. Eames reaches for the tail end of the anger he felt earlier and flexes it. He’s intending to use it very irresponsibly.

“Hands behind your head. Good boy. I’m going to fuck your throat in a moment. Be a love and choke for me. I want everything. All of it.”

There’s no teasing or delicacy to this. Eames pushes in along Arthur’s recoiling tongue, drives in forcefully across the roof of his mouth. Arthur jerks like he’s been shot. He’s pushed backwards, off-balance, fingers unlacing and lacing together again as he rights himself, taking as much in as he can, swallowing desperately and in vain. He whines.

“Not good enough,” snaps Eames, pushing in again, not all the way, not yet, but deep enough. Arthur is beginning to sweat, now, is making a lot of noise, and he can feel the proper slick starting to collect at the back of his throat. He rubs himself on the inside of Arthur’s cheeks, explores the dampness of his scalp with petting fingers, brushes salt water from the corners of his eyes before feeding Arthur's tears back to him, then forces himself as deep as he can, past that delicious, convulsive, squirming flutter as Arthur swallows, takes him into his throat, and chokes.

Eames counts seconds, withdraws, and before Arthur can properly catch his breath presses back in. “Perfect, Arthur,” he says. “You just keep doing that.”

Eames is burning with this, all the wet heat of it, but he also feels slow wonderment as Arthur lets him in, holds him there, pushes himself harder onto Eames. He feels worshipped and used at the same time. It's everything. He steps forward, and Arthur’s hands fly out to grab Eames’ thighs, partly to keep him upright, partly to brace himself in case Eames pushes him right into the wall. He might. Eames’ cock is buried deep, and Arthur’s not budging, now, is refusing to break away, his tongue slowing, his whole frame starting to shudder. Eames pulls him off his cock, slaps his cheek to bring him back, and Arthur _pouts_ at that, drops one hand to his crotch, a transgression that means he wants Eames to slap him again. So Eames does, twice, and Arthur’s radiant bliss is so palpable in the aftermath that Eames’ heart aches, seeing it.

He drags Arthur’s hand back towards his thigh. “None of that,” he says, clamping it there, feeding his cock back into Arthur’s mouth. “This is enough for you. This is all you need.”

The sight of Arthur right now threatens to tip Eames over the edge: his face wet, his eyes a stream of helpless tears, the sound of his constant choking on Eames’ cock, the sight of it between his stretched and swollen lips, his crotch dark with spit and precome. Eames holds himself back, forces himself to concentrate, because Arthur is conducting a private war with his own need for air and Eames knows he’s winning, In dreamspace he’d fuck Arthur’s throat right through it, until the moment Arthur slid back topside and he’d find himself alone, shooting his load through empty air. They did that a lot, for a while. But this is real, and risky, and any moment now—

It happens fast. Arthur shudders, his eyes roll back, and Eames is pulling him free, holding him by the armpits and lowering him softly down the floor, turning him on one side, arranging his arms, his legs, his hips. His face is red; he’s gasping like a landed fish and drooling across the concrete. Eames assesses his breathing, checks his pulse, working himself roughly all the while. It’s alchemy, this coincidence of tenderness, worry, and vicious lust, and it ignites him in all the right, wrong places. He cups a hand beneath himself and curses, then he sees a hand reaching weakly towards him, and he spills himself instead into Arthur’s upheld palm. The orgasm is mountainous, hot, furious, almost terrifying; he groans it out, eyes screwed tight.

When the haze clears he sees Arthur trying to lift his still shaking hand to his mouth, a cat licking down cream. When he’s done his mouth falls open again. He can’t seem to remember how to shut it.

“Deep enough for you?”

Arthur blinks. “Fuck, Eames. Yes. Ground zero,” he croaks.

“Right-ho, Arthur, I’m going to pick you up now. Don’t make a fuss.”

Eames hoists him up like a bride and walks them to the cot bed in the warehouse backroom. He lays Arthur down, pulls his shirt free of his pants, opens his fly and noses down through stickiness and musk and hair until all of Arthur is in his mouth. Arthur is too weak to participate, but it takes hardly any time before Eames pulls an orgasm from him, drinks him right down— and keeps going until Arthur shifts his whole body in protest and whispers _stop, please_.

"There, there," says Eames. He brings Arthur water. He holds the bottle while he drinks. He cards Arthur’s hair back into place, tips his head back gently, asking Arthur to look up, just hold it there, while he administers his eyedrops, massages his eyes closed, kisses the lids, tucks Arthur's head beneath his chin, winds him in his arms, tells him how perfect that was, how brave he is, how he needs to sleep now, how well-prepared he is, how he’s the best there is, how nothing can go wrong with this job, how nothing will ever go wrong.

Arthur stirs, cracks one eye. “Bullshit, Mr Eames. You are talking nonsense. But I love it. You also. Go to sleep.”


End file.
